


Creature Comforts

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Parentlock, Minor Character Death, Post-TFP, Stupid case, sherlock is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:31:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: An odd case, a story within a story, and a hint of parentlock rolled into one.This was written quick-fire so it's a bit rushed, I may go back to it and tweak it properly.





	

"No, Eileen, this really isn't a good idea," Thomas warned, shoving his hands in his pockets and nuzzling his nose into his scarf, watching her closely.

"Why isn't it?" She asked, spreading her arms out as she performed a clumsy pirouette. "I think it's a brilliant idea, which is all that matters. Difference of opinion, and all that. You think the third Matrix film is good, whilst I maintain that it’s perfectly rubbish..." As she span, the rickety gate swayed on its loose hinges and Eileen wobbled precariously, attempting to remain standing. In an instant, Thomas was by her side, ready to catch her should she fall. He spluttered in annoyance in response to her grin. 

"Isn't a good idea as in I don't really fancy a trip to the hospital when your clumsiness kicks in," he replied curtly. "Just get down."

Eileen's eyes sparkled with barely contained glee as Thomas took a step closer, and after a short hesitation she continued walking, the gate mimicking the beam she always favoured in gymnastics. She grinned as Thomas' hands clamped firmly around her ankles. 

"You're worrying again," she hummed. "And you wouldn't need to come to the hospital with me. Although, I'd rather you did. They smell awful," she chuckled, smiling at her feet. Eileen was wearing a little pink dress, with dainty silk bows sewn into the hem. It was made by the village dressmaker, a woman with a knack for making the most uncomfortable clothing in the world, in Eileen’s opinion.

The wind caught the frills and it whipped around her knees, revealing various grass stains and bruises. "I wonder if there's an area of the hospital that doesn't smell of old people and anti-septic..." 

"The morgue," Thomas quipped, glaring up at her. "Eileen. Get down." 

"I've never been to the morgue before," Eileen replied, squinting up at the sky as a buzzard flew overhead. "D'you reckon they'd let me in if I asked?" 

"No," he frowned, looking up at her. "Come on, Eileen. It's going to start raining soon. Look," he pointed up at a big black cloud unfurling over the mountain. "And you'll ruin your dress. Mum'll have a fit, you don't want that."

"Maybe I do," Eileen smiled innocently. "Maybe I want mummy to get worked up over something, maybe I want her to cry..." her tone was thoughtful, airy, as light as the sea breeze on a hot summer day. "Maybe... maybe I even want her to-"

The balding man choked out a sob, clasping his hand over his mouth as John offered him a packet of tissues. He'd become used to carrying them around. If it wasn't because of a crying client, it was because Rosie had sticky fingers. If it wasn't because of a quick wank, it was because John had suddenly become very worried in Sherlock catching a cold. Both he and Rosie had suffered through one in the past week, but Sherlock's immune system remained unrelenting and he stayed annoyingly healthy. 

"T-thanks," he gasped, wiping his nose as his cheeks grew as red as the spider veins criss-crossing through them. John offered him another pack of tissues, and Sherlock stood up purposefully, gliding into the kitchen in one swift motion. The man looked up, watching Sherlock leave. "Where's he going?" He sobbed, full of desperation as he turned his gaze on John for clarification. When John shrugged, the man broke down. "I know you're picky about your cases, Mr. Holmes, but please, you have to help me. I've nowhere else to turn. The police aren't interested, and Mrs. Higgins is-"

He was cut off by the roar of the kettle, gaping at the sliding doors. From where he was sat, he couldn't quite see into the kitchen, but it didn't take a genius to work out what Sherlock was doing.

"Yeah, he does that now," John supplied, lowering his voice and smiling slightly. "If anyone is a bit, er, overwhelmed, he makes them tea. He had a complaint about the ‘customer relations’,” he explained, his smile warming as he remembered Sherlock's reaction to that particular letter.

He leaned back in his red armchair as Sherlock walked back in, carrying two mugs of tea. Wearing his usual Spencer Hart suit, he looked suave and sophisticated, far more so than his surrounding home. Whilst many people only saw the cold-hearted criminal catcher, John knew that Sherlock was a man who longed for his homely comforts, and would be back in his dressing gown and slippers moments after the client had left. As such, John had always questioned why no one had ever asked Sherlock why he used his living room as an office, nor why he was so open about his messy home. They'd clamped down on that recently, however, what with Rosie on the loose. 

Sherlock walked back in a few moments later, handing a mug to the man and a mug to John. John smiled up at him as he accepted it, and Sherlock slid him a biscuit. 

"Creature comforts," he muttered at John's apparent confusion, sitting back down and turning to look at their still sobbing visitor. John chuckled to himself. 

It hadn't taken John long to move back in after they started dating; the initial push coming as a result of Sherlock redecorating John's old bedroom. When Sherlock had first broached the subject to him, John wouldn't have denied that he was a little hurt by Sherlock’s decision. After all, it did have a number of John's possessions tucked away in there, as well as countless memories.

Listening to Sherlock play the violin at 2am; storming up there in a sulk when he and Sherlock had had a row. He hadn't slept there since the eve of Sherlock’s ‘death’, but it was still his. It would always be his. Until…

“Lilac?” John asked, watching Sherlock with a bemused expression as Sherlock strode out of B&Q, wearing denim dungarees that were covered in paint. “Why lilac? I thought you'd have gone for green, or red; match the rest of Mrs Hudson’s decorating.” He chuckled to himself, thinking about his favourite display of chaotic wallpaper. “Does she know you're painting the room?”

Sherlock carried the pots of paint over to John's car, dumping them in the boot. John didn't bother to ask when he'd pick pocketed him, but he still gave him an unimpressed frown, which warned Sherlock the topic wouldn't be forgotten. 

“Of course she knows,” Sherlock replied, slamming the boot with a loud bang. “I may be an awful lodger, but I think I deserve a little more credit than that. She's picking stuff up for me, actually, and oh, you need to take me to IKEA.” 

Despite the signs, John still hadn't picked up on just what Sherlock was doing. Lilac did indeed seem like a very odd colour for a man of 40 living alone, but John decided not to ask any questions.

“… and Susan is coming over tomorrow…”

“Who's Susan?” John asked quickly as he threw a punch at their latest suspect. The man ducked and Sherlock hit him over the head with a frying pan.

“Painter,” Sherlock said breathlessly, hitting the man a bit harder and grinning as he collapsed, landing on the wet pavement. It was one of those moments where John knew in the instant of it occurring that it would be an absolute pig to explain in his blog. Why did Sherlock have a saucepan? Why was the Prime Minister’s gardener lying unconscious on the ground and why on Earth was he glad for it? 

“Painter?” John asked, crouching down and rummaging through the suspect’s pockets. “What do you need a painter for?”

“Do you really expect me to answer that?” Sherlock sighed, watching him. “Because if you want me to explain what a painter does, I'm afraid I'm going to have to knock some sense into you,” he frowned, holding the frying pan up for John to see, who rolled his eyes, opting to say no more on the subject through fear of joining the gardener. 

It was only when Sherlock phoned him at 6am on a Thursday morning did John realise that something was slightly off. Not for the fact that he was being called at 6am, no, but for the topic under discussion instead. 

“Is it…” Sherlock yawned. “Those baby gate, things. You know them?”

“Yeah… the most annoying things I've ever come across. What about them?”

“Do you… do you put them at the bottom of the stairs, or the top? Or do you just buy two?” Sherlock asked, and John couldn't help but smile at his tone. Airy, and innocent, but with the overwhelming sense that he was definitely up to something; Sherlock was very good at many things, but hiding his curiosity wasn't one of them. John chuckled, rubbing his eyes and rolling over as he stretched out across the bed.

“Two… I have two. Although that's mainly because…” he paused to stifle a yawn, “there's not two of me.” 

Sherlock made an unintelligible noise before hanging up, and John was able to fall back to sleep. It wasn't until he shut the gate as he carried Rosie down the stairs a few hours later did he remember his conversation with Sherlock. 

“You know,” Sherlock began, lying on the floor with Rosie sitting by his head, hands deep in his curls as she played with them. She would pull occasionally, but she'd cry when John moved her away and Sherlock would always look equally as upset, so John always relented at let them carry on. “You haven't been on any dates recently. No one catching your eye at work?” He smiled, looking up at him as John flicked through the paper. 

John frowned slightly, shielding his face with the paper. 

“No, why?” He asked, crossing one leg over the other.

Sherlock shrugged. “Just wondering. Because, I’d be more than happy to babysit Rosie.” Rosie tugged his hair and squealed happily, and Sherlock winced. “If you wanted to go out for the evening. That's what godparents do, isn't it?” He looked up at John for confirmation, but John was blinking stupidly at him. “Molly looked after her all the time when…”

“You want me to go out on a date?” John asked, incredulous. “You want me to start dating again? Mate,” he shook his head. “No time soon. I'm too busy with Rosie.” 

Sherlock nodded, looking a bit offended. 

“But… I've offered to babysit, so it's really not that much of an issue,” he argued as Rosie patted his forehead. “And… you need to get out more. You can't keep juggling me and Rosie all the time. You need to have a social life, too.” 

Rosie yawned, and within a flash John had picked her up, abandoning the paper. 

“She's tired. I should probably take her back home, we’ll talk about this another time.” John smiled, gathering up Rosie’s toys as Sherlock stood up to help.

Yet, Sherlock didn't help. Instead, he swallowed, set his jaw, and took Rosie off John. Rosie smiled up at him, and Sherlock grinned as he quickly carried Rosie up to John's old room, ignoring his protests along the way.

The room was bright, with enough toys to start a nursery. With lilac walls, the light summer breeze drifted in through the open window and made the whole room appear a lot fresher than it had done when John slept there. On one wall however, there was a large painting of a cartoon elephant standing next to a traffic light, which was on green. 

John gaped at it, and Sherlock shuffled to the edge of the room with Rosie starting to doze off in his arms. 

“Sherlock…” John began, looking around. “When did you…?”

"It's taken me a month,” Sherlock explained, shifting from foot to foot. “It wasn't hard, but with cases and stuff,” he shrugged. “Because I thought, well, you're round here often enough, and you always go when Rosie’s tired, and I don't like it when you go because I miss you. Both of you. It's so quiet here when it's just Mrs Hudson and I, and, yeah.” He looked down. “It's okay if you don't… You don't have to… here,” he offered Rosie to him, looking incredibly guilty and not meeting John's eye.

John couldn't help but grin.

"Now, Mr...?"

"O'Leary," Mr. O'Leary said quickly, surprised that the topic had turned back to him.. "Thomas O'Learly."

Sherlock hummed as he nodded, smiling at John. “Continue with your story, unless you're going to start crying again…” John kicked him lightly. 

\--

The trees cracked as the wind picked up, and Eileen wobbled as the gate groaned. She grinned at Thomas. “This is fun, isn't it?” She giggled. “I feel like a tightrope walker… Once false move and…” she yelped as she fell off, landing in Thomas’ arms. Wrapping her arms firmly around his neck, she looked around. “Shall we get going, then?” 

Thomas glared at her, but nodded. “Yes, before it starts raining,” he grumbled, carrying her back along the path.

\--

“That's not true, though, is it?” Sherlock cut in. “What actually happened? Clearly something tragic, or you wouldn't be emphasising it so much…” he smiled, earning him another kick from John. 

Thomas wiped his eyes, looking up at him. “She died, Mr Holmes,” he choked. “Hit her head; I couldn't catch her. I couldn't…”

“Hm,” Sherlock nodded. “Tragic tale that occurred 14 years ago. Why are you bringing this to my attention?” John glared at him, but Sherlock shrugged. 

Both he and John watched as Thomas started fumbling around with his bag, sniffing as he withdrew a silk pick dress, with small bows stitched onto it. John gaped.

“That's her dress, Eileen… that's Eileen’s dress,” he said, looking up at Sherlock who was gaping at it. Thomas dissolved into sobs, and Sherlock took it off him, examining it closely and tossing him another box of tissues. 

John watched him. The dress looked brand new, and infinitely smaller than the one Eileen would have been wearing when she died. “This dress,” John began. “How did you get it?” 

“Found it in my desk,” Thomas explained. “Opened my drawer, and there it was.” John watched as the man in front of him dissolved into more tears, and he made a quick mental note to text Harry. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, expression solemn. “There's nothing I can do to help this man,” he murmured, reaching over to lay the dress on Thomas’s lap.

“Mr O’Leary?” He promoted carefully. “Go home, call your wife. She has some news for you.” John's heart warmed at how softly Sherlock was speaking, pushing another tissue into Thomas’ hand. 

It took a while for him to leave, pressing the phone to his ear whilst Sherlock pushed him out onto the street. John hovered by the stairs, watching Sherlock fondly. When Sherlock finally closed the front door, John wrapped his arms around his middle, smiling. 

“For a moment I thought you were going to break your promise to prove that letter wrong,” he sighed as Sherlock wriggled around to face him. “So, the dress, then. Bit gruesome if it's someone trying to poke fun, don't you think?”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. “It wasn't. His wife is pregnant with a girl, but she hasn't told him yet,” he says. “That's her way of telling him that, in a way, he's going to get Eileen back. Much the same way as you've got Ma-“

“Shut up,” John said quickly. “But, how could you possibly know that? If he didn't know that, how on earth did you?”

The grin Sherlock gave him was infectious; within a few moments John was grinning too, despite being utterly confused. “C’mon, Sherlock, tell me.”

"Didn't you see how tired he was?” Sherlock chuckled. “His wife has had severe morning sickness, and he's been sure to look after her. You heard of what he was like before his sister died… so stoic. He reminded me of Mycroft. Obviously, he didn't pick up on the pregnancy, but something was making him emotional, and that was the stress of dealing with a woman who was trying to keep her pregnancy a secret,” he explained, smiling. “He's going to be so happy when he finds out. Couples are funny like that, though. They become so used to each other that it becomes easy to hide things. You didn't pick up on my decorating Rosie’s room, for example, because you're used to me doing slightly odd things without explanation.”

John smiled. “Really? Couples can hide things from each other?” He asked sarcastically, but this time it was Sherlock's time to roll his eyes. 

“You know they can,” he sighed, tensing slightly at the risk of bringing Mary up. John noticed and shuffled away from him. 

“Really?” He hummed, standing next to the wall at the bottom of the stairs as he moved down onto one knee, grinning up at him. “Are you absolutely sure that couples can hide things from one another? The same way I've hidden this?” He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a small box. Sherlock gaped at him as John opened it, revealing its contents. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” John smiled. “Will you marry…”

He was cut off by Sherlock fainting.


End file.
